


When The Lives We Lived Are Only Golden-Plated

by folie_aplusieurs



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Angst, Cursed!Patrick, M/M, Nightingale and the Rose AU, Patrick can turn into a bird but it never happens onscreen, fairytale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-10 17:39:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18665191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/folie_aplusieurs/pseuds/folie_aplusieurs
Summary: The worst mistake Patrick made in his life was agreeing to be a cruel man's pet bird.The second worst mistake is falling in love with Pete, a regular visitor to his flower shop.A tale in which Patrick is a bird caught in a golden cage and Pete's the human who has no idea about the greater tale going on around him.





	When The Lives We Lived Are Only Golden-Plated

**Author's Note:**

> Absolute confession here-- I procrastinated this for so long and I am so sorry. I wrote the first half of this right after the challenge was created but then I forgot about it until approximately a week ago. So, this is what we have. Although, I mean, I'm actually rather proud of how this turned out. Hopefully other people enjoy it, too?
> 
> Based on the tale "The Nightingale and the Rose." It's quite sad so it only seemed to fitting to make a Peterick version, as well.

When Patrick was younger, he thought he understood the magic of nature. The essence of roses and how easily they helped couples fall in love, the purity of breathing and the simple exchange of life and death. When he was younger, he’d press his hands flat to the earth; he'd reach his hands up to the sky.

Now, he knows better than to give in. He knows what true power lies in this world and he’d be a fool to go searching again.

So perhaps it’s strange that he spends his days working at a flower shop. Still, it’s the closest he can get and the thorns are wonderful reminders of why he shouldn’t get too close.

The door to the shop jingles as Patrick’s sweeping and he blinks away from his lonesome thoughts, smiling when he sees the familiar head of dark hair waltzing in.

“You got more flowers,” Pete exclaims, smiling back at Patrick. “God, what do you do with all of them?”

“Sell them, mostly,” Patrick says, leaning his broom against the wall and wiping his hands off on the green apron wrapped around his middle. “They’re not much good for anything else. You know, they do say some of the prettiest things in life are useless.”

“Don’t talk about yourself like that.” Pete says it quickly and some part of Patrick had been expecting it. Expecting it, though, doesn’t save him from the blush that crosses his cheeks.

“Oh, shut up,” Patrick says. “Most of these are a special order so you’re lucky you’re back to see them before they’re picked up. How was tour, by the way?”

“Astounding.” And Pete puts on that special smile, the one he wears whenever someone gets him going about his band. It’s nothing too grand, though he’s argued that point many times over, but it’s something exceptional to him. Some good friends and an endless road before them, Pete’s living the dream. If it didn’t make Pete so happy, Patrick would be jealous of the freedom. As it is, he simply envies music’s ability to make Pete smile like he never can. “Do you know what it’s like to have a room full of people shouting your words back at you? It’s like… It’s like fucking flying, Trick.”

Patrick’s smile falters and his gaze drops to the ground, to the dust he’s yet to clean and the hole at the tip of his shoes. If he stares at only that then he can remember the feeling of wind across the back of his neck and the dip in his stomach when the ground disappears. He wonders how Pete thinks flying feels though he knows there’s no way Pete could ever guess.

“You think you’re gonna head back out soon?” He asks, mumbling more than he’d like. Pete shrugs, either uncertain or uncaring of the answer as he turns to look at one of the display bouquets. Pink and purple orchids press together with green accents scattered among them, the sun from outside dancing upon the glass vase they rest in.

He stares at the flowers the way he always does, the way he did when he first wandered into Patrick’s store a little over a year ago. Eyes bright and lips parted, he’d been drenched from the rain and searching for shelter. It was late and most of the shops nearby had closed but Patrick… Well, Patrick doesn't ever really leave so he supposes it was lucky for Pete that he'd gotten trapped on this street. Patrick had fussed about the stranger dripping water all over the floor, huffing to himself about how much more work he’ll have to do, but Pete had been oblivious to it all. That night, Patrick had red roses in the display. And Pete had looked at them as if he’d never seen roses before.

Pete looks at flowers the way Patrick’s certain he looks at Pete, the way he always looks at Pete. With a dry mouth and quiet breaths, Patrick’s gaze drags from the painfully tight jeans to the mess of hair atop his head. His eyes travel the sea of ink on his arms, sinking down to his hands as his fingers flutter over the petals like a bird not yet wishing to land.

Pete likes to joke and call Patrick pretty, to compare him to his flowers and pretend that he means it at all. Sometimes, when Pete’s gone, Patrick wonders if repeating those lines to Pete would be worth the embarrassment sure to follow.

“Oh, shoot, wait right there, I got something for you,” Patrick says as Pete finally rests the tip of his finger against one of the petals, turning with a soft frown as Patrick rushes behind the counter to retrieve the one flower he’s kept hidden from everyone else. “It’s not, like, it’s not anything grand but I thought you’d like it so…”

Patrick says it like it’s a joke but his heart pounds in his chest when he rises again with a red rose in his hand. He’s sick in his own skin, insecure as he always is whenever Pete looks at him with a smile like _that_. Like he’s nervous to step closer to Patrick but wants to do it anyway.

“It’s… It’s just, like, a thank you for being my friend,” Patrick says in a rush, the words running into each other so quickly he’s not certain he even understands himself. “Not many people put up with me for too long.”

Not many people put up with the fact that he never meets them anywhere outside the shop, always working and cleaning and living with plants. Not many people put up with the skittish energy or weird quotes. Not many people put up with him, at all.

Pete smiles and takes the flower from Patrick with all the tenderness of receiving something that’s alive. Patrick barely feels his own heart with Pete so close.

“One day, I’ll steal you away from this place and show the world how great you really are,” Pete says, running his fingers up and down the stem with a gentle grin. There are places where thorns used to be and Patrick spent all morning making certain it would be so. His fingertips still ache from the cuts and jabs they’d suffered but this, at least, is worth the pain. “Or, on second thought, maybe not. I like having you to myself.”

“Don’t make it weird, you asshole,” Patrick says, tugging the brim of his hat down even as he smiles against his will. With Pete, the words are never as threatening as he knows they could be. “I’ll take it back, I swear.”

Even with the hat blocking the way, Pete catches Patrick’s eye with his own and grins brighter than before. “Thank you, seriously. I don’t want you to think I don’t mean it when I say that.”

 _Say what_? Patrick wants to ask. Does he mean the gratitude or does he mean every moment when he makes Patrick smile and glow like something from a fairy tale?

It’s better not to know. It’s better to keep the fairy tales where they belong— and it’s best to keep Pete far away from it.

Still, Pete smirks and he shines like a knight in the sun. “You’re my favorite person in the world.”

~ ~ ~

Patrick spends most of his free time sketching out his own garden plans though he does so with no small amount of hopelessness. He doodles daisies and sunflowers and orchids on the back of newspapers all the while knowing the pre-picked flowers in his shop are all he’ll ever have. His to protect and sell but never his to keep.

This is what he’s doing when the bells by the shop’s front door chime again, ringing with that piercing tone he’s learned to recognize as magic. He shoves his papers away, cursing to himself as his hand-drawn garden tumbles to the ground. Why does he always pick the worst times to give into such dreams?

“You said you wouldn’t be back so soon,” he says instead, staring at his fingernails and hoping his voice is louder than the beating of his heart.

The being who laughs in response doesn’t have a name Patrick can pronounce— and it’s not a thing Patrick would like to learn, anyway. The thing is barely human, a mess of magic and matter held together in some physical form by nothing more than will. He’s cold with hot eyes, a shadow in the shape of a predator. Though Patrick can’t make out many features when he looks at him, he swears he sees small sharp teeth and bones made of wood. _Prospero_ is what Patrick calls him in his head. Half because they met around the same time Patrick dropped his Shakespeare classes and half because he’s a being of magic with a bad habit of collecting creatures he finds helpful.

“I wanted to see how my flowers are doing. I do miss them when they’re gone. As I miss you, Nightingale.” Prospero never speaks while in Patrick’s shop, his words a mere projection into Patrick’s mind. He sounds like nails across glass, the worst mix of scratched and smooth. Sincerity almost mixes into his voice this time and Patrick shudders at the sound. He bites his tongue before he can tell Prospero not to call him that, chills traveling down his arm as if asking him to fulfill what’s been left unsaid. “What? No feathers?”

“Believe it or not, I’m not too fond of them. Not after—”

Not after Prospero discovered Patrick’s secret talent, the ability to transform and fly. Not after they struck a deal that Patrick didn’t understand. Flowers and nature in exchange for Patrick’s presence.

Flowers and nature to fill Patrick’s shop; a pretty pet bird to fill Prospero’s garden.

As if by summoning it with his own thoughts, the shop around Patrick shimmers and reveals the enchanted realm hidden beneath, the magic garden with flowers dripping with gold and creatures lavishing in the sight. Patrick hadn’t intended to build his flower shop over an enchanted garden, hidden from humans with a veil of magic and spells, but by the time he’d realized, it’d been too late. Prospero wanted payment for the use of his land and Patrick had nothing to give. Nothing but his own magic, his own voice and soul. And Prospero took it readily. Now, Prospero brings him flowers to sell and Patrick plays the part of his bird. Never leaving the garden, never leaving the shop.

Golden bars that no one but Prospero and Patrick can see make up the frame of the flower shop, decorated by flowers and guarded by thorns. A birdcage with no door, a prison Patrick agreed to if it meant he’d have his stupid plants. Perhaps it seemed like a good idea at the time— Prospero provides food and whatever other supplies Patrick may need— but Patrick understands his own foolishness now. The door at the front of the shop is nothing but an entrance and Patrick has lost too much dignity pulling at the handle, trying to get out.

Prospero smiles a hideous smile at Patrick as if reading his thoughts, a mask of sadistic pleasure at Patrick’s red cheeks and lowered gaze. It’s a face Patrick’s seen plenty of times over the years and he refuses to look at it for long.

“You’ll stop fighting it one day,” Prospero says, turning back to his flowers. Skeletal fingers reach out and stroke a bouquet, adding thorns to the stem where his fingertips touch. “Or do you still believe in true love?’

Patrick flinches. Does he still believe that something as simple and stupid as a love confession could save him? He’s not sure he ever did.

“What do you want?” He asks, leaning against the counter and commending himself for the bravery in his voice. This, of course, fades when Prospero takes a step towards him.

“I’d tell you but it seems not even you have it anymore,” Prospero says, flickering eyes scanning the rows of flowers. “You took one of my roses.”

Patrick’s heart stops beating. “There was a special order. I had to—”

“I know about every order,” Prospero says, shushing Patrick by raising his hand. “And you know about the rules. You take the flowers I provide and you don't dare touch any from my garden.”

“Right,” Patrick says, his mouth dry. “Right, well. I guess I forgot.”

“Forgot.” Prospero’s face is impossible to see but there’s still something terrifying in the set of his scowl. “Don’t lie to me. And here you claim not to believe in love.”

Patrick has nothing to say to that, mouth slamming shut so quickly he nearly bites his tongue. Prospero laughs and it’s a vicious sound, a haunting sound that nearly brings Patrick to his knees.

“Do you truly believe gifting flowers can save you?” Prospero asks. “I’ll forgive you this once but don’t let me catch you doing this again. I’d hate to pluck any more of your feathers.”

Prospero, at last, takes the shape of a man, a dark-haired and fire-eyed human with a necklace of golden feathers around his throat. And, as he brings his fingertips to them, Patrick feels sick, his shoulders aching from the memory of last time he went against Prospero’s wishes in an attempt to escape. He’d hate to go through that again, too.

“Will my bird sing for me tonight?” Prospero asks. Patrick’s heavy gaze drags to the window, his spirit faltering at the sight of dark skies and a sheet of stars.

“Your bird has no choice.”

In the past, Patrick might have dreamt of escape or true love. He might have dreamt of freedom and leaving this all behind.

But his nights leave no room for dreams now. He shuts his eyes and the ground disappears; his being seems to shrink and his body warms with the cool kiss of feathers appearing upon it soon after.

Patrick has no time for dreams. As Prospero smiles and calls for Patrick to fly to him, Patrick’s too busy pretending his life isn’t a nightmare.

~ ~ ~

Pete is youth in Patrick’s ageless prison, the warmth of sunny smiles beside the biting cold of golden bars. Pete is freedom when he opens the door and hurries in, Patrick’s name on his tongue like Patrick’s own personal song. Pete is a friend, is hope, is magic without strings attached.

“Mikey wants yellow flowers.”

Pete is pain.

Patrick’s heard Pete speak of friends and family before but, as Pete leans against the counter with an expression Patrick’s never seen, he realizes he’s never heard Pete talk about crushes or dates. Something constricts around his heart and his mind taunts him with images of a smaller cage around it, stilling the beating as Pete sighs and flicks at a fallen petal before him.

“What?” Patrick asks, his hands still on the bouquet he’d been putting together. Pete sighs again and Patrick does his best not to wince at the sound.

“Mikey,” he says as if Patrick should know who he is. “I tried offering him the red flower, right? But he said he likes yellow.”

Patrick’s breath catches in his throat, sharp and hot and pained, but Pete doesn’t react to the choked sound other than to glance up with something unreadable in his eyes. He says something more but Patrick doesn’t hear it, turning with a twinge in his chest.

That cage, tightening again around his bones and heart. He recognizes the familiar shift in his body trying to change into a bird and he stiffens, fighting it off and waiting for his breaths to give up their place in his lungs.

They come out in one steady exhale. “Oh.”

The red rose Patrick gave him last time? The one he stole from behind Prospero’s back, plucking out thorns without caring for the way they pricked his flesh? He’d waited eagerly for Pete to return, feeling twice the fear each time Prospero came through the shop because he knew stealing would result in more pain. And Prospero had made Patrick pay for his crimes last night, having him sing until his throat ached and snatching another feather to match the rest around his throat.

Patrick rubs the spot beneath his shoulder. Last night, he’d thought the temporary pain had been worth it because it had made Pete smile at him. Now, though…

“So do you have any yellow?” Pete asks, standing and glancing around. Patrick turns to face him, dropping his gaze to Pete’s fingers tapping nervously on the counter before looking up to Pete’s insistent gaze. Eyes wide and caught on Patrick, Pete seems to be holding his breath, too.

“Yeah,” Patrick says with a dry mouth. “There are some nice ones in the back. I’ll go grab them.”

Pete frowns and Patrick hates how that’s his motivation, how he’ll help Pete win over someone else if it means it’ll make him smile again. Besides, Pete has more chance with this Mikey, anyway. No one wants a bird who can’t fly. Pete is youth and freedom; Patrick’s a bird chained up by ancient magic. It makes sense but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.

Patrick leaves Pete in the front as he sneaks into the back, a cooled room where Prospero’s beloved flowers grow. It’s half magic garden and half flower shop, tiled floor becoming grass and dirt as Patrick wanders further back. He knows if he’ll keep watching, he’ll reach the back of the cage to the bars that taunt him with their pretty shine. Patrick keeps his head down and tries not to think of it, pretending the gold above his head is only the sun.

He wanders through an abundance of red roses, dozens upon dozens that Patrick’s forbidden to touch. Past them, there are more colors, shades unnamed and unseen by anyone outside the magic realm. Patrick’s spent hours seated before the fantastical plants, taking in their otherworldly traits. Flowers that appear as fire, hot to the touch and dancing like a flame only to still once it’s been plucked. Bushes with berries the size of his fist, shimmering beneath the light and tasting like laughter on his tongue. Vines wrapping up the walls reflecting the color of his eyes, reaching for the sky with thorns as long as his arm. Patrick used to love all of them. Now, they’re merely part of his prison.

He stops before the more vibrant flowers, petals that seem plucked from rainbows and pinned to green stems, and frowns at the silver thorns across them. He’s gotten good at tearing those off— it’s one of the tasks Prospero’s given him a thousand times— but it’s easier when he can imagine Pete will appreciate the effort. It’s harder when he knows Pete will give it away without a thought.

Patrick sighs and sits before the flower bush, taking the clippers left here from last time’s thievery and cutting away the closest one. It glimmers like gold and carries the scent of summer but Patrick can’t find joy in it as he wonders who Pete has in mind. Perhaps there should be comfort in the fact they’ll never have to meet but, somehow, that simply makes things worse. Patrick can’t help but imagine everything he can’t give Pete and pins it onto the image of a boy who can— someone as lively as Pete, as free and radiant as Pete.

As Patrick begins pulling thorns from the stem, using the clippers to scrape away the more stubborn ones, he tries not to focus on these thoughts. The thorns poke at his fingers and dots of blood fall across the leaves but it’s nothing Patrick’s not used to. He used to be allowed better tools for this but Prospero’s not as generous as he used to be, not since Patrick’s met Pete.

Patrick wonders whether Pete would care if he knew the truth, if he saw Patrick as the yellow bird he is with wings more sparkling than any of these flowers. His cage is gold but only to match his feathers, only to mock what he really is.

Once, he was proud to be such a creature, using his ability to soar over buildings and seek out new gardens, new beauties to marvel at. He’d land among other creatures— magic or not— and watch flowers bloom, his song forming from the awe of nature before him. He’d promised to always surround himself with such things. Look how well that turned out.

Thorns gone and heaped beneath the bush, Patrick stands and wipes the remaining blood from his fingers and turns back to the door. Pete’s waiting in his same spot, typing furiously into his phone until he catches sight of Patrick returning. He shoves his phone away and waves. It brings a smile to Patrick’s face.

“I’m not supposed to give this to you,” Patrick admits as he wraps a ribbon around the flower, a touch he usually adds to Pete’s roses. “So I hope you understand how special this is.”

Pete takes his time responding, watching as Patrick prepares the flower.

“Isn’t it always special?” He asks, at last. Patrick glances up in small shock at the genuine tone. He matches it with sincerity of his own.

“Only for you.”

Pete smiles and it amazes Patrick the way it always does even as he takes a flower meant for someone else. He doesn’t seem to notice the new red dots on Patrick’s fingers or the way in which Patrick hesitates to pull his hand away, hoping for some cliche brushing of their fingertips. He chides himself when he takes his hand back, cheeks red as Pete spins the flower in his hand.

“Your flowers are always the best, Patrick,” he says. “They don’t even look real sometimes. It’s got me looking for fairies or cameras— one of them, at least, but I’m hoping for fairies.”

Patrick laughs but it’s more forced than anything. “You starting with that fairy tale shit again? You’re always on about make-believe things, I’ve no idea why they’re so fascinating to you.”

When Pete smiles, it’s with a kiss in the corner of his mouth, so tempting Patrick nearly leans over to steal it.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” he says, “but fairy tales are the only places that have happy endings anymore.”

Patricks wishes he could agree.

~ ~ ~

It’s been a week since Pete left with the yellow rose. And it’s been a week since Prospero noticed.

Patrick sincerely hopes Pete’s doing well if only because the knowledge would make his sacrifice more bearable.

More than the cage that Patrick’s become accustomed to and more painful than the plucking of his feathers, he now wears a chain around his wrist, one attached to a spot beneath the counter and allowing him to move no further than the first few rows of flowers. He can’t reach the back door on his own and that, more than the humiliation of being truly caught and chained, is the worst part. Though it was still part of his cage, it was the closest he’d feel to freedom.

Or maybe the worst part is how the chain is enchanted, suppressing his bird-self until Prospero allows him to shift. He’s never liked being a bird— the cage has killed that joy— but at least he had the chance to be one at all. Now, he is completely under Prospero's control.

Patrick’s rubbing his wrist, the gold band digging into his skin, when the door swings open. He looks up with jerky movements, tugging his sleeve down and dropping his arm to hide the chain. The common greeting is halfway to his tongue when he catches sight of familiar brown eyes.

“Oh, hey,” he says to Pete, the words falling flat. The chain seems to burn as Pete draws closer with a smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes, a smile that makes Patrick think his sacrifice didn’t work.

“Hello,” Pete says, trying for playful and failing entirely. “Sorry, it’s been a while. I hope you’ve been doing well.”

“I’m fine, thanks.” Patrick might feel guilty for the small flinch he earns from Pete at that but he’s too busy trying to conceal his chain. “Did… Did Mikey like the flower?”

“Mikey?” Pete asks before blinking and pasting his smile back on, brighter and faker than before. It’s overshadowed by the dark circles beneath his eyes and the way he picks his nails, shifting nervously as he shrugs. “I guess, yeah. But, well, I was wrong. He, uh, he actually likes red roses more? Like really red roses.”

“Like the one I gave you when you came back?” Patrick asks, biting his tongue too late. Bitterness escapes and Pete’s smile twitches enough that Patrick looks down in shame. “Sorry, we just don’t have many red flowers out anymore. I’m not supposed to be selling those. They’re for… Someone else already did a special order for that.”

As far as lies go, this one sucks. Still, Pete’s face darkens.

“More special than me?” He asks, sounding truly wounded. If it weren’t for Patrick’s own pain, he’d spend more time wondering about Pete’s saddened eyes. “I thought you said I was the only special one.”

 _You are_. This time, Patrick does bite back the words before they escape. He shakes his head, coughing to cover the sound of the chain jingling when he nearly lifts his hand to point at something across the room.

“You come in and buy flowers, Pete, it’s no big deal,” he says, ignoring how Pete’s face falls further. “Either way, I’m busy and you, apparently, have an order to make. There are forms by the door. Fill one out and I’ll see what I can do.”

Pete prepares to say something else but shuts his mouth soon after, watching Patrick. He leans against the counter and Patrick pulls away, fighting to keep his chain out of sight.

“You’re weird today,” Pete says. “You need to get out of here. We never hang out outside of this shop and, man, I love flowers but I’d really like to see you somewhere else, too. You’ve got to be done working for the day, right? Take a break.”

Patrick looks past Pete, to the door and windows— locked and dark with night falling upon the sky. Pete’s never asked Patrick to leave before and perhaps Patrick’s taken that for granted, forgetting that anyone else would leave at night and join friends for fun. The edges of his vision blur into golden bars and flowers with reaching clutches, mocking him.

“It’s late,” Patrick says, dropping his gaze.

“Yeah, a perfect time to not be working,” Pete says. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

Patrick takes a breath instead of answering. He imagines he can feel the chain tightening around his wrist.

Pete presses closer, practically hanging off the other side of the counter. “You can pick what we do, I don’t care. I just want to spend time with you, as I do with all my friends. We never get to do that.”

“Well, what do you call this?” Patrick snaps, twisting and moving in front of the chain so it’s digging into the back of his leg, hiding it.

Pete frowns; his eyes flash. “Buying flowers. Like you said.”

Patrick’s hands close slowly into fists. He shuts his eyes and imagines he can leave with Pete, imagines that there’s more to life than cages and chains. Where would Pete take him? What would they do?

But what does it matter? Pete has a partner already and Patrick is stuck in place.

He opens his eyes but refuses to meet Pete’s.

“If you’re buying flowers,” he says slowly, each word sticking to the roof of his mouth, “then I already told you that you need to go fill out a form.”

Pete jerks back as if Patrick had struck him, cheeks pink and jaw dropped.

“Okay, whatever. Fine,” he says, backing away with steps steadier than his voice. “Forget about it. I don’t need the stupid flowers.”

The _I don’t need you_ goes unsaid.

“Good,” Patrick says even as Pete begins to leave. Already, a piece of him aches, a phantom pain in the place Pete should be. Here, close, smiling and treating Patrick like something more than a prisoner. “I wouldn’t be able to give you the red this time.”

“Because someone else ordered it?” Pete asks, glancing back just once before reaching the door. There’s something new in his voice, something that scares Patrick as Pete laughs in a way he never has before. Once, the sound was kind and ethereal, an escape from this world Patrick’s caged in; now, it’s nothing but cold distance. “Or because you know I’d be giving it away?”

Patrick has no chance to answer before the bell rings and Pete disappears past the door.

~ ~ ~

Prospero’s late. He’s never late.

Pete left hours ago, giving Patrick time to properly stress over the interaction and wish to do it over. It’s not Pete’s fault Patrick can’t leave this shop; it’s not Pete’s fault if he wants to give flowers to someone else.

Still, it stings to think of Pete passing them away like nothing but trinkets, not knowing of the pains Patrick goes through to get them. Patrick’s proud of his flowers, though he hates what they symbolize, and he thought Pete saw the beauty in them, too. Patrick’s good with nature. He supposes, perhaps that’s all he’ll ever be good at.

He sits on the floor with his back to the counter, his wrist sore from the chain wrapped around it. His heart jumps with each brush of breeze against the building, each sign that Prospero could appear. Patrick knows what to expect, yes, but that only means he knows what to fear.

Another hour passes. Patrick’s eyes grow heavy and his back begins to ache. He slips into his mind unwillingly, thinking back to Pete.

Pete, who’d been so excited to come in and ask for a red rose— just one, he’d suggested. Just the one. Pete— always smiling or laughing or sharing some inane thought— had given Patrick the chance to make him happy again. Jealous and shamed, Patrick had refused.

He wouldn’t do that now, he thinks. He’d give Pete all the flowers in the shop if it meant he would return to call Patrick his friend.

Pete deserves more than weekly visits to a freak in a flower shop but, somehow, Patrick’s selfish enough to want it.

Long past the point where Patrick should be asleep, Prospero still hasn’t shown.

And Patrick, more awake now with Pete’s image in his mind, shoves to his feet and faces the back door.

He may not be entirely at peace with the fact that Pete will be giving his flowers away but he will still have Pete back. He will still be here.

Patrick feels like every bit the magical monster he is as he creeps towards the door in the dark, the sound of his chain jangling behind him. He’s a ghost, he’s a ghoul, he’s everything he fears but he can accept this. He will accept this.

Though he knows the door will always be just outside his reach, he tugs at the chain and extends his arm out as far as it will go. Outside, the wind blows with the whisper of Prospero’s name and Patrick pulls harder, the bite of metal drawing blood from his wrist. The doorknob brushes his fingertips, nails scraping across it as he fights. There’s no one to see his humiliating act but his cheeks blaze in shame, his eyes stinging as he twists and turns his body in any way that will draw him closer to what he needs.

And, then, as hope begins to slip away in the shape of tears pressing against his eyes, the chain breaks. Snaps. Lets loose with no more resistance than a petal falling from its place.

Patrick collapses against the door with nothing left to hold him back, the handle jabbing into his gut as he falls forward. He laughs to himself and fumbles for the handle, palms sweaty as he swings it open.

He’ll collect flowers of every color for Pete, hide them away and hand one out each time Pete comes in. If he brings a dozen back to the counter, that’s twelve days of Pete in his shop. If he grabs thirty, that’s a month.

He’ll dazzle Pete with the rainbow, maybe even bring him back and let him pick for himself. He’ll show him what he has to offer by staying inside. He’ll make it so Pete never wants to leave.

Red flowers first. Then the world.

Patrick steps inside and that very world shatters.

Flowers stand before him, as proud as they were before, but no lights or colors greet his eyes.

All the roses have been turned white.

Breath and hope leave Patrick’s body and, empty, he falls to his knees with a painful thud. He can’t blink, can’t look away, and the chain left hanging around his wrist feels tighter than ever.

The chain was nothing but a joke. This is the real punishment.

“Amazing, isn’t it?” Prospero sits beside what was once the yellow rosebush, a white flower in his hand. “I must say, I expected more wailing, but this, this silence of yours, will work, too.”

Patrick blinks back his tears, appreciating that they haven’t fallen yet.

“Why?” He asks in a strained voice. “These were _your_ flowers. Your garden and—”

“And none of it means anything if it leads my bird away.” Prospero stands with a coolness that chills the air, crossing the room to Patrick like the wind. Patrick screams at himself to move away, to run, to fight but he never gets the chance. Prospero kneels before him, his eyes considering, and runs icy fingers through Patrick's hair. Patrick keeps still, eyes on white petals coated in shadow, and Prospero cups his jaw and forces him to meet his eyes.

“Did you think me foolish? That the chain would break so easily without my aid?” Prospero asks. “I only kept you tied there so I could spy without worry of your noticing. I heard the boy come in and ask for red roses. And I heard your heart break when you thought of how they’re meant for someone else.”

“Then you must have heard me tell him no,” Patrick pleads, bottom lip trembling. “I turned him away. I didn’t give him anything.”

“And yet you’re still here, hoping for red roses,” Prospero says. “You see, I know you, Patrick. And I knew you’d come back and try to break my rules again. I’ve been too kind with you so it’s time to make another deal.” He stands and holds out the white flower, Patrick gazing up with watery eyes. “I stole the colors from my flowers but they can be turned back. Your human asked for red roses and that can be done before he returns. But it requires something from you.”

Patrick hates the hope that rises in his chest, blooming and burning. “What?”

“Your heart,” Prospero says in a voice like acid, a voice like death. “I’ve enchanted the thorns on this rose. If you bleed upon it, my magic will pierce a part of your heart— the human part. Do you know what this means?”

Patrick slumps back down, everything draining from him as he realizes Prospero’s plan.

“I’ll lose the human side of my life,” Patrick breathes. “It’ll force me to a bird forever.”

“Yes, but that's not the important part,” Prospero says.

“No?” Patrick asks.

Prospero offers the flower to him, golden thorns shining on the stem.

“It will force you to be my pet.”

~ ~ ~

Was there ever any question that Patrick would take the rose? Was there ever any doubt?

The rose is like an old friend in Patrick’s hand and he twirls it between his fingers, careful not to cut himself quite yet. The striking white shade— pale and nearly glowing— is a constant ache in his chest but he ignores it, for now, eyes on the sunrise outside the shop’s window.

Prospero left after Patrick took the flower, laughing to himself before disappearing into a cloud of dust. Before he’d gone, though, he warned Patrick of waiting too long. His offer is only available until the next sunset. No time to think; no time to weigh the pros and cons. Patrick simply thought of Pete and took the flower as if he had no other choice.

Because, really, does he?

His life is a cage and Patrick’s tired of pretending it’s not. Tired of making up excuses about why he can’t go outside, tired of watching everyone else live while he hides away. He’s learned how to smile and pretend he’s alright but each forced grin is a fracture on the inside.

He can never have Pete in the way he wants but he can still find a way to make Pete happy.

Though his heart pounds as if uncertain, Patrick already knows he’ll be taking Prospero’s deal.

His hand shakes as he lifts a finger to one of the thorns, the golden glow echoing that of his cage. He bites his lip and tries not to look away, not to give in to alarm or panic as he brings his finger closer to the flower’s stem. He holds his breath; he lets it out. He tears up; he blinks it away.

He presses his fingertip to the thorn.

He holds it there until pain sets in, until the skin bursts and blood flows out.

When he pulls his finger back, there’s blood left on the thorn. Ruby red against the curse of gold, soaking into the flower like water. The blood doesn’t drip from the thorn, however; it flows up the stem and to the petals, staining each one with the red of Patrick’s blood. More vibrant than any Patrick’s seen before, a deeper shade than exists in nature. It’s beautiful. It’s perfect.

And, like a nightmare, Prospero's final curse sets in.

Patrick's heart beats to a quicker beat, the pace of a hummingbird flapping its wings. He hears nothing but his own voice crying out as he falls to the ground, bones hollowing and reshaping beneath his skin. It’s a sensation he’s used to as feathers sprout from his arms and shoulders, yellow things the shade of the flower he once gave Pete.

At last, realizing what he’s truly given up, tears flow from Patrick’s eyes.

No more smiling at Pete’s stupid stories and trading jokes as they look at flowers. No more waiting for him to show up, heart racing in his chest when he does. He’s cut Pete out from his life and, he thinks, he’s taken himself from Pete’s, as well.

Will Pete wonder where he’s gone? Will he show up to the shop at all?

Patrick shuts his eyes to these questions.

He shuts his eyes to the world.

~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~

When Pete arrives at Patrick’s flower shop, he pauses at the front door and frowns at the closed sign.

Patrick’s shop is never closed. Not once, in all his time of being Patrick’s friend, has the shop ever closed. It’s… It’s Patrick’s _thing_. He’s passionate about his work and flowers and, though Pete doesn’t entirely understand it, he accepts it. He adores it.

So, he stares at the closed sign, even tilting his head to the side to check if he’s reading it wrong. Then, he tilts his head the other way and looks through the window.

The lights are off. The place is empty.

The flowers are _white_.

Pete planned on storming in to see make Patrick was okay but, now, he feels he has no choice. He pushes the door open, not at all surprised when he finds it unlocked.

“Patrick?” He calls out, carefully walking in. The automatic lights flash on at his presence and he winces, repeating the action when he sees the white flowers again. “Patrick? Are you here?”

There’s no answer and Pete feels a strange twist in his chest and gut, a drop of his stomach and a stutter of his heart. He walks to the counter and looks behind it as if hoping Patrick’s hiding.

Still, he finds nothing.

“Patrick!” He tries again, more fear in his voice than before. “Patrick, seriously, I just want to talk about— Oh.”

His eyes fall on the back door, the one Patrick disappears into when he collects Pete’s colored flowers. It’s cracked open and, as Pete steps closer, he can hear soft fluttering noises inside.

“Patrick?”

The noises stop. Pete smiles to himself, shaking his head.

“Okay, you’re hiding. That’s alright,” he says. “You don’t need to come out, I get it. But I wanted to come to see if you’re okay. You were rather strange the other day and, well, it didn’t sit right with me to ignore it.”

He pauses, receiving no response. He shifts his weight, glancing nervously at the door before continuing.

“And, yeah, okay, maybe that’s just an excuse to come see you,” he half-jokes. “But I promise that’s just because I care.”

A soft sound inside the room like petals falling to a floor. Pete takes it as a good sign and moves to open the door, to walk in. He stops, though, when he spots something on the ground— a red flower left just outside the door.

It’s unlike any rose Pete’s seen before, blooming with a life he can’t explain. It captures his breath and smiles back with a beautiful red shade. His chest dares to swell and burst at the sight, his grin feeling perfect when he runs his thumb down the thornless stem.

“You left this out here, didn’t you? It’s the flower I asked for, the one for—” He cuts off, his smile falling. “I guess that’s what I should talk to you about, huh? The flowers I ask for.” He takes a breath, spinning the flower between his fingers. “Patrick, they weren’t for Mikey. And, if they were, they didn’t mean anything. I just… I wanted to see how you’d react. I wanted to see if you’d get jealous.”

This time, he’s met with silence and he has no problem carrying on.

“You know, I notice that you take the thorns off. Every time, on every flower. I don’t know why I’ve never pointed that out before. It’s really nice,” he says. “You’re always doing such thoughtful things. Giving me flowers when you’re not supposed to, taking away the thorns, finding the exact color I’m dreaming of… Maybe that’s why I always go to bed hoping I’ll dream of you.”

Pete looks up from the flower and at the door, waiting for Patrick to say something, to step through, to do anything to show he hears these words.

“I almost did it last night, you know. I thought of you until I fell asleep and I thought of you when I woke up,” he says. “And I realized how stupid I’ve been by trying to play these mind games, trying to figure out your feelings without ever admitting mine. I’m sorry if I hurt you and I’m sorry for fighting. And I’m sorry for not telling you any of this sooner because, Patrick, I really like you. And, I think, if you give me the chance, I can really fall in love with you.”

Pete’s words spill from his mouth in a hopeless rant, one breath with a million emotions inside. When he reaches the end, heart nearly exploding in his chest, he still receives no response.

“Come on, Patrick,” he begs, dropping the flower to the ground. “Say something!”

Nothing happens.

And, then, the door slowly opens.

Patrick looks at him, eyes shining and cheeks pink as if he’d been crying. Pete reaches for him but stops himself when Patrick’s lips part in a stunned expression.

“You love me.” It’s not a question and Pete smiles at the awed tone.

“I mean, I think I can,” he says. Patrick stumbles forward, hands finding Pete’s arms and holding tightly. There’s something about him today, something more lively than Pete’s ever seen before. Something… something almost free.

“You do,” Patrick insists, eyes flitting to the walls and back at Pete as if seeing something Pete can’t. His smile grows and his eyes glisten with tears. “You do or else I wouldn’t… You… You just…”

“You’re making no sense and it’s kind of delightful,” Pete says as Patrick continues to search for words, a burst of breathless laughter escaping Patrick’s throat.

“Nevermind, just…” Patrick looks past Pete and Pete follows his gaze. Strange— the flowers all seem to have their colors back, brighter than should be possible. Perhaps his earlier glance at them was just a trick of the light. “Do you want to go somewhere? Go do something?”

Pete looks at Patrick in shock, a smile fitting back onto his face. “I’d love to. Where do you want to go?”

Patrick’s hand slips down to Pete’s, lacing their fingers together and holding on tight.

“I want to go everywhere.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Well, the story wasn't quite as long as I might have liked to to be but I do hope you enjoy it and I thank you profusely for reading. I will love you forever if you kudos/comment and I will love you even more if you drop an ask or a message on my tumblr page-- folie_aplusieurs.tumblr.com
> 
> Thank you to the creators of this challenge! All readers should go check out their stuff, as well!


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